


Best Served Cold

by Mellaithwen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abduction, Episode Related, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e20 Dead Man's Blood, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapped Dean, Kidnapping, Revenge, Torture, Vampires, Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-14
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 16:16:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1272934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellaithwen/pseuds/Mellaithwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Dead Man's Blood. The Vampires want revenge...and they won't rest until they have it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part of archiving everything to this site from livejournal. Originally written and posted in 2006.

**_These walls I make they hold me in and hold me back today_ **

 

Her eyes held such fury as she stared at the wall. She was shaking with anger, with grief. Her lover was gone, her leader, murdered by a god damn gun. She screamed, a high pitch shriek, as she threw the numerous stolen items from the table, letting them crash to the floor as she began throwing everything within reach. The shot still sounded in her ear. She shouldn’t be afraid of guns, her kind should never be afraid of ridiculous mortal weapons, but this gun? This god damn gun in that Bastards hands had ended him, ended Luther, killed him in a way she never thought possible.

 

She screamed again, shouting more now, until what little of her pack came in, unperturbed by her outburst but curious nonetheless. One of the few male Vampires, Adam, strayed forward, grabbing her by the shoulders and forcing her to look straight at him.

 

“We will get revenge, Kate, I swear it.”

 

“I want it now,” She hissed, “I want them dead,”

 

“No, you want them to _suffer_ , and they will, I swear to you, they’ll regret this.”

 

*-*-*

 

“We’ll head out in the morning,” John Winchester said simply to his boys, still standing at the foot of their beds, reeling from the acceptance in their father’s tone as he said quite simply, that they had been right all along.  

 

“To where?” Sam asked, before Dean even had a chance.

 

“Back to town first, then we can pick it up from there, keep moving, keep hunting.” John said simply, trying to make Sam understand that sometimes even he did not have all the answers and it wasn’t always a simple case of him keeping them at a distance. Sam nodded in understanding, finishing the last of his packing, and tossing the bag next to the chair, Dean following suit.

 

The oldest Winchester son looked over to their father as he was about to get settled in the same chair he had sat in the night before. He offered the bed, not actually tired himself, but John quickly declined content with the chair and his leaning against the wall. “All right, but don’t say I didn’t offer,” Dean muttered, grabbing his older clothes as sleep wear and heading for the bathroom.

 

When he came out, somehow Sam had already dozed to sleep, and John himself, though still dressed in the same clothes, looked ready to fall asleep. Dean however, couldn’t even yawn...

 

Hours passed by and soon, dawn was barely breaking across the horizon, the sky still so dark, and only now the light was beginning to make itself known. Dean was trying to be quiet as he walked around the room, dressed and more than awake.

 

“Where are you going?” John asked suddenly, startling Dean who had assumed his father to be asleep, he shrugged once he was able to breathe again.

 

“There was a diner on the way back into town, thought I’d get us some breakfast,”

 

John quirked his eyebrow at this, and wondered the real reason for Dean waking up that early, and being that coherent before coffee. He would never ask; he never had. Dean always had a way of dealing with his own problems, and who was John to interfere?

 

Dean unlocked the bolt, and the door creaked open, he winced, looking back at his younger brother, but his father nodded in his direction. The younger boy was still asleep, and lord knows he needed it. He returned the gesture and stepped into the barely-morning air. He shivered from the change in temperature, hugging his black jacket closer to him, his leather one annoyingly folded beneath Sam’s arm, unable to reach it without rousing his brother.

 

Dean looked around outside for a moment, before twirling the keys once in the air and heading for the impala. As soon as he gunned the engine, he realised that Sam would probably wake up at that, putting all of his efforts in vain. The car purred as he backed up and drove down the small road heading to town.

 

The road seemed endless though he knew it was anything but, the miles few past as he increased the speed, pushing his car to the limit, because no matter how his father might berate him, he had given it to him, and thus it was now his, to gather rust or not.

 

As if he would do that. It had taken him over a year to convince his father to let him share it with his son let alone give it to him and when he had finally forked over the keys Dean hadn’t hidden his happiness, or made a sarcastic comment either. He had been grateful and had shown as much in his _thank you’s_.

 

His stomach growled as he continued driving. The last meal he had had, not counting whatever snacks he had stashed away in the car, had been well over a day ago, and considering the same went for his father and brother, he figured he might as well do something more productive than staring up at the dark ceiling.

 

He had tried sleeping, and normally, no matter what was going on, he had managed it. He could sleep through the loudest of noises, but be on alert instantly if he knew there was real danger in the air, any other time he settled for the groggy response followed by yawning for almost ten minutes straight. He gripped the steering wheel, his hands holding tightly as he let his mind wander. Not only had he stood up against his father, he had disobeyed an order, and rubbed his father’s face in it.

 

He was beginning to scare himself, and he wondered if it had anything to do with the length of time he was spending around his brother, and without his father. After all, whenever they were younger Sam would storm off, be it to his room, or to college, and John would give a Dean a look that told him quite simply who was wrong in the situation, and it was never their father. Not even once.

 

_“Vampires? I thought there was no such thing?”_

 

_“You never even mentioned them, Dad.”_

 

  
_“I thought they were extinct, I though Elkins and others had wiped them out,”_ The pause seemed to last for eternity before, _“I was wrong,”_

 

That had surprised him. The first time the great John Winchester had been wrong, or rather, admitted to being so.

 

He squirmed in his seat when unbidden thoughts arose. Sammy had told him days afterwards about the voicemail, the message that told John Winchester his son was going to die and in all honesty, Dean wished Sam had kept it to himself. He didn’t like seeing his father in a new light, especially when it was so harsh on his eyes. He’d lain in a hospital bed for three days before he had enough of the doctors, hell, even the pretty nurses weren’t helping his frustration. Sam hadn’t been there in a while, as soon as Dean was moved up to the ICU Sam’s ability to visit often was struck down.

 

He would lie there on his own, watching as others came and went inside, though, the visitations did seem to be limited to those with mere hours left. Dean would think that soon, he would be one of them. He didn’t want Sam to come here, but he didn’t want to be alone either. He had gotten himself ready, and left despite the protests from the medical staff. He’d gotten the taxi and made his way to the motel room door, wondering how his brother might react.

 

Not once had he felt nostalgic for his father not being there, because he knew John was hunting the demon, he did not want to come in-between that, and it was okay, because John didn’t know, and there was no way of him finding out until Sammy might call up with the funeral date. He sighed a lot in that week, berating his morbid mind as he kept mulling over his death. All lonely and slow.

 

They had been driving on the roads far away from Nebraska, Sam driving and Dean still weak from his most recent bout with the Reaper. He ached but it was nothing like the sharp agony of the electricity bolting through his body, he knew.

 

“I called him,” Sam said quietly, when he realised Dean wouldn’t be letting him fall asleep any time soon. Dean grunted, unaware, and Sam continued.

 

“Just before you came back to the motel, I called Dad, left a message.”

Dean was more alert now, though he tried to act as though he wasn’t.

 

“He never called back, never picked up, he didn’t even text.”

 

“He probably doesn’t have his phone, Sammy.” Dean ground out, and one look from him stopped any scoff on Sam’s lips. Dean wanted to believe that, and Sam let him.

 

After all, John hadn’t turned up when Dean had phoned back in Lawrence, but then, in Chicago he had turned up after one of Dean’s far more simple messages, almost completely devoid of emotion, all business as he asked simply for the older man’s assistance, baiting him with promises on a lead in finding the demon.

 

And as he drove, Dean’s morbid thoughts once again went to the darker confines of his mind. He and Sam had been bait, and he wondered, perhaps, if they hadn’t gotten free as they did, would John have saved them like Meg said? Or would it be too much of a risk? He didn’t want the demon and his cronies to think he was predictable after all...

 

_Of course he’d have saved you._

 

The lighter part of him said, a tone akin to _duh_ , and Dean wondered how many more doubts could cross his mind before he reached the god damn diner.

 

He wasn’t paying attention to the road, his thoughts elsewhere, so when he saw a figure in the middle of it, his instincts made him grab a hold of the wheel and swerve dangerously to avoid hitting whoever it was. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, before his eyes widened when he saw the shadows at the side of the road where the forest trees dwarfed the grassy embankments into darkness. He saw _her_ getting closer, eyes glinting with something far more dangerous than he had seen earlier.

 

Vengeance.

 

It was the bitch. His jaw hurt thinking about her, and he shuddered at the thought of her kiss. He wouldn’t go as far to say she was ugly, but the whole no-pulse thing, didn’t really appeal to him. She had been the figure in the road, and oh how he wished he had continued driving at full speed, if only to send her crashing into a god damn tree...

 

He quickly reversed, his hands gripping the wheel even tighter as he took the sharp turn and began driving in the opposite direction, dimly aware of the few shadows following on either side, and her footsteps increasing in speed as he put his foot on the gas, hell bent on getting back to the cabin where his brother and father were. There was no way he could fight them off without his weapons, and no way of getting to them either.

 

He hadn’t been driving for that long, surely but he had gained quite a few miles. He growled; still seeing the shadows of her fellow Vampires following in the corners of his eyes. This was so not good. He reached into his pocket quickly, grabbing his cell and flipping it open, and suddenly he was at a loss. Was Sam’s phone even switched on? Did his father still have the same cell?

 

Another growl as he decided on his brother’s number, keeping his right hand on the wheel.

 

_Ring, ring_

 

“Come on, pick up,” he muttered.

 

_Ring, ring._

 

“Come _on_ ,”

 

“Dean?”

 

His father’s no-nonsense growl met his ears, clearly having seen the caller ID before accepting the call. He didn’t care what Sam said, if his father could text and answer Sam’s phone (with far too many buttons for its own good) then he was clearly improving when it came to new technology.

 

_“I’m beginning to see what you meant about that whole scent for life thing,”_

 

And John caught on immediately, swallowing the lump in his throat for his son’s safety, he quickly began to shake Sam awake. “Where are you?” He asked Dean as Sam shot awake and stared quizzically at his father and his phone. He looked around the room. No Dean.

 

  
_“On the way back now, but they’re uh- kinda quick on their feet.”_ Sam heard his brother’s voice through the phone and began to panic. Whoever they were, it couldn’t be good. Not with their track record.

 

“What’s going on? Where’s Dean?”

 

  
_“He’s awake then?”_ Dean said, with a hint of humour in the far from laughable situation they were in.

 

John held a hand up to stop anymore questions from his son as he scrambled around for his shoes and jacket.

 

“Do you think you can make the stop for your weapons?” Their father asked simply, already looking around him for the truck’s keys.

 

  
_“I don’t know, I cou-Shit!”_ He cried suddenly, dropping the phone, as Kate’s Vampiric grace let her land in a crouch on the hood of the Impala. Dean was about to brake in the hopes of throwing her off and under the car when her fist punched through the glass of the front window sending it flying around him. He brought his arms up to shield his eyes from the shards and without his own hands to guide the Impala; she grabbed the wheel and turned it, before jumping off of the car in the space of a second.

 

The glass bit into his skin and the car swerved from her touch, sending his head into the driver side window and cracking the glass, before flying down the embankment, he managed to regain control enough to avoid hitting the base of the tree head on, but the side of the car still made impact enough to jar the car to a standstill, metal scraped on bark, screeching. Dean’s hands flew out instantly as though to break a fall. They pushed hard against the impala’s steering wheel. The embankment itself was not far down, and the car’s back wheel’s still span around at the side of the road where that car was tilted facing downward.

 

His head span, and his vision blurred as he tried to get a sense of the vertigo from not being perfectly upright. He fumbled for the door handle only to find his side jammed from the impact on its hinges. Every time his banged his fist against the door, his headache seemed to worsen.

 

His eyes widened when he saw the shadows of her fellow Vampires closing in quickly. “Shit, shit, shit,” He muttered as she walked toward him, still fighting with the door handle. She stopped at the car window, cracked but not broken. He abandoned his attempts, and scrambled over the seat to the passenger side door, but the door creaked open, her strength and advantage from being on the outside letting it open up easily. She leaned in, grabbed a fistful of hair and dragged him backwards out of the car and onto the grass outside.

 

He struggled wildly, pulling at her wrist as she kept dragging him up the small hill. He dug his heels into the ground but she kept pulling, and he could feel the blood from a head wound flowing freely down his cheek. He grunted and tried to pull away, but as soon as she reached the tarmac of the road, her pack surrounded her. They sneered and glared, but none of them stood with their teeth bared. Dean was on his back looking up at them. He glared in return, and went to scramble away again, but was stopped by a sharp kick to his midsection. He groaned, doubling in on himself as more kicks followed, until finally one boot to the head knocked him out, and he panicked at the dark that swallowed him whole.

 

*-*-*

 

The cell phone had fallen onto the passenger side foot space, forgotten as the car was left abandoned, though not by choice.

 

Sam and John were already out of the door as they heard the first of many swear words, and Sam had begun screaming his brother’s name down the phone as soon as he heard the distinct screeching of tires, and the crashing that followed. The broken glass, the _fuck’s_ and _shit’s_ his brother had mouthed off before silence.

 

“Dean? Dean! _Dean!_ ”

 

John heard every cry and drove that little bit faster each time.

 

**TBC**

.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**_My time is on its way. I'll fall but I won't break_ **

 

He could hear them outside, hear them talking, and conferring. More than once he had heard glee in their tone, pleasure at having him held captive as he was.

 

_“Don’t worry Kate; we’ll make him suffer,”_

 

And the words spoken with such confidence made a chill run down his spine. They really had pissed her off then. He remembered her attempt to attack their father after the initial shot, but the little of her remaining nest had pulled her back, getting into their cars and driving away before they were all killed. His father had been more concerned with how effective the gun had been to even consider the possibility of revenge on the part of the un-dead, and to be honest, none of them had truly thought of it as too much of a possibility to worry about.

 

Sighing was something his brother was better at, the brooding too, and while normally Dean might cuss and swear like no tomorrow, he didn’t want to draw any more attention to himself. If they were going to leave him alone for the time being then it would give his father and Sam more time to come get him; if they had even taken him to the same lair. He was fairly sure they were, after all, he remembered springing the captives of this very room less than a day earlier, or was it more than that? He had broken the fenced doorway, but clearly it has since been rebuilt. He growled quietly, mouthing many a  _‘shit’_  but not saying a word.

 

He tried to break free from his bonds for the umpteenth time, but nothing helped. His hands were tied behind him tightly with thick coarse rope that had been wound around far too many times for his liking and his ankles were facing the same situation, bound so tight that he could barely feel his feet anymore. Or maybe that was the cold?

 

They’d taken his shoes, and socks, jacket and undershirt, leaving nothing more than the thin dark green tee he had been wearing underneath and his feet bare. He thanked god for the presence of his jeans, but his belt had been taken, as well as the knife he normally had stored in his boot for emergency. The air in the Colorado Mountains was thin, and with it still being early morning, the chill was ever present, especially now he was no longer fully dressed, and he was vaguely sure his injuries didn’t help much.

 

His ribs hurt somewhat but he knew from experience they were neither broken nor cracked. His legs ached too from the way they were bent and tied at his ankles. He could imagine the purplish tone his skin was no doubt taking though from the obvious bruising that had to occur from the beating he had received, knocking him unconscious. His wrists hurt too, but no matter how jarred they had been from bracing himself when he swerved the car to avoid the tree, the fact that they were now rubbed raw from the rope, enough to make little trickles of blood run down his palms, was causing more concern. The worse they got, the harder it would be to break free at all.

 

After accounting his injuries, he realised the worst of them was his head wound. There was a gash on his left temple from the impact made with his driver’s side window. Blood had run down the side of his fact, pooling on his shoulder, leaving a dark red stain. He couldn’t tell if it was still bleeding or not, but he was definitely more woozy than usual. He had avoided concussion for the most part.

 

So considering he had been jumped by Vampires, made to drive like a maniac in an attempt at a get away, attacked to the point that had made him crash his car...

 

He groaned at the thought of his car abandoned on the side of the road, no doubt suffering from somewhat of a fender bender, though he doubted it would take too much to fix.

 

And he wasn’t looking forward to his father’s reaction to it. After all, only two days ago John had berated his son over the less-than-perfect appearance of the Impala, he couldn’t imagine what he would say when he saw the state of it now, with broken glass everywhere...

 

Though he had been jumped, forced to attempt a getaway, failed miserably, crashing his beloved car, and knocked unconscious after struggling against being dragged away like an animal, he found himself lucky to not be worse off.

 

_“We’ll make him suffer,”_

 

But as the male Vampire’s words came back to him he had a feeling that wouldn’t last very long.

 

*-*-*

 

“We have to find him,” Sam said, more to himself than anyone else, but tensed as his father heard it as otherwise.

 

“Don’t you think I know that Sam?” John growled in response, his patience waning quickly with his youngest. They had been driving for no more than ten minutes, and already were beginning to fight.

 

“Then why are we going in the opposite direction?” Sam cried, exasperated, and watching his father with a hawk-like gaze.

 

“We can’t just walk in Sam-.”

 

“Why the hell not? What, Dean isn’t as important as your precious gun?”

 

The truck swerved as it came to an abrupt stop and already Sam knew he hadn’t meant the words, and that there was no truth in them, but he didn’t dare admit that. After all, if he started backing down now, then...

 

“How can you even think that?” John asked; too quiet for his son’s liking.

 

“Why can’t we just go get him, now, Dad? We don’t know what they’re doing to him! He could be dead already, we have to find him!”

 

“I know Sam!” John shouted, “But they have the advantage, okay? We don’t know where they’re keeping Dean, we don’t know if he’s hurt or not, and we don’t know what they want! If we run in there, it could get your brother killed,”

 

“Not if he’s already dead,”

 

“Sam!”

 

“What? You heard the crash and you saw the car, Dad, I don’t think they care too much about his welfare right now.”

 

“So what would you have me do, Sam? Walk right in there and kill them all?”

 

“It’s a start,”

 

“We don’t know where your brother is.” He was gritting his teeth against his anger, “If he’s hurt, if he’s badly injured we can’t waste any time,”

“Like now you mean?”

 

“For Gods sake, Sam!” John cried, but Sam didn’t answer, he was looking through the window at something. “Sam!” but the boy didn’t answer, he simply ran out of the car and continued down the road, having seen something black in the distance.

 

“Sam!” John called after his son, before running full pelt in the same direction. Sam had stopped up ahead and John pushed on.

 

“What the hell was-?”

 

John stopped short when he saw what Sam was staring at. The Impala, his own before he had caved and let his son take the car, was abandoned down the side of the road. He followed Sam to the driver side door, wincing at the blood on the driver side window, clinging on to the pointed shards of glass that hung on by a thread.

 

The front window the smashed, a hole, and surrounding cracks making it obvious that something had flown through...or someone, by the looks of things, a fist had thrust through the glass and made Dean swerve. The front seats were covered in shards, but the door had been opened, and without any sign of his son, John was more than worried.

 

Sam leaned in, seeing the cell phone discarded on the opposite side floor. He looked at it, almost mournfully, before turning to his father and shouting;

 

“They did this! They did this to him!”

 

“Sam-.” John began.

 

“No! He’s hurt, Dad!” Sam cut him off, already hysterical and John wondered when the anger had morphed into such naked fear.

 

“Sam, I know-.”

 

“No you don’t-.”

 

“This isn’t helping your brother!” John snarled, having enough of every single sentence being cut off by his son as he fretted over his brother’s well being.

 

“You know what would help? Getting him back, getting him away from them, and keeping him safe.”

 

John sighed.

 

“You want to protect us, protect  _him_?” Sam continued, “Then let’s storm the place, we’ll find him, I know we will.”

 

John stayed silent. Sam sounded so sure, so desperate, but they couldn’t just run in there, he had suggested that once already, and it never pleased him to have to scream for his boys to run for their lives. It was that that had given the vampires their scent in the first place, almost killed Sam in a choke-hold and now Dean-

 

Dean could be dead or worse, he could be one of them, and then John would have no choice but to-

 

“Or was saying you don’t want to see one of your sons die a load of bullshit too?”

 

John’s inner monologue was cut off suddenly, and any fears of Dean becoming one of the things he vowed to kill fled as his son’s words reverberated inside his head. How dare he? How _dare_  he?

 

“Don’t start, Sam.”

 

“Don’t start what, Dad? Accuse you of being a bad parent,  _no_ , how could I?”

 

“Samuel Winchester, you will not take that tone with me!”

 

“They have Dean! Dad, they have him. They  _took_  him, and you’re too busy arguing-”

 

“ _I’m_  too busy?”

 

“Look, we could use the gun,” And just like that everything was business and Sam was determined to get his point across. Emphasise the need to get to Dean sooner rather than later. He doubted they would turn him into one of their own, it would be too easy. They were far too vindictive, and too stupid to see how that might pain the Winchesters more. Oh no, they’d hurt Dean, and in doing so hurt the rest of them, the old fashioned way.

 

“What?” John cried, incredulous at the notion, “No!”

 

“If we go in there with machetes-”

 

“We’re not going in there, Sam, not yet,”

 

“They’ve seen us, Dad, they’ve seen us fight, they know our weaknesses, hell, that vampire knew enough to grab me to stop Dean and he’d only seen us twice at the most!”

 

“What are you proposing we do, Sam? Run in there like last time? Try and sneak around? Get your brother killed?”

 

“You’re the expert,” And Sam knew he should really stop, but his emotions were on hyper-alert, and he couldn’t stop himself. Couldn’t stop the urge to rebel against his father, and blame him for everything, but right then, with the fear of Dean’s pain weighing down on him, he couldn’t help but gain satisfaction at the chord he struck.

 

John saw red; he flashed forward, and grabbed his son’s shirt in his fists.

 

“What did you say?” He asked his tone dangerously low, but Sam, a credit to him, kept eye contact throughout.

 

“You’re killing us, Dad, every day, every damn day.”

 

His shirt was let go, lumps in the material staying put even without the rough hands holding them up. Sam dared take a breath as he watched his father step back slightly, running a hand through his dark hair, beginning to grey, keeping an eye on the empty car in front of them; the car that his son no doubt would have fought tooth and nail to stay in, rather than be taken by  _them_. He had called for help and what had they done? They had distracted him even more by talking to him on the god damn cell.

 

Ands the self depreciative nature of the Winchesters didn’t stop there. Oh no. John kept staring at the car, his car, Dean’s car, the family car they had all slept in, all sat in, fought in, laughed in, and certainly cried in. The seats were stained with their blood, sweat and tears, even though the upholstery was clean.

 

Or it least, it would be if Dean’s blood wasn’t splattered on it sheltered with shards of glass. John saw his failings in the intricate patterns of cracks on glass. He had sat on this car’s bumper, his baby in his arms, his boy by his side, clinging on to him as he watched the fire truck, the big red fire truck, like the toy he used to have, outside of his home. He watched in complete silence, sticking close to his father and brother as they rested on the black car’s bumper.

 

John had driven the car over to Mike’s, he had driven back to his home to grab the few things that weren’t charred beyond recognition. He had driven to and fro to the police station, Dean’s kindergarten class and to the grocery store. At least he had on the few days where he acknowledged his son’s needing him, and Mike’s nagging.

 

He had driven them away in the middle of the night, he had driven them far from one danger and straight into another. Back and forth between states, across borders, through motel car parks, and fast food drive-in’s. Sometimes back to Lawrence, sometimes only passing through, sometimes to a friend, to keep the boys safe while he hunted god knows what while they slept on unaware.

 

And then he had finally given in to Dean’s practical begging, and hinting about the car needing a new owner, who would appreciate her more.

 

  
_“Who better than your first-born, Dad?”_ Dean smirked, and John had silently agreed, though he wouldn’t say as much until at least two or three weeks later. And now the car was abandoned, not too worse for wear, which gave him hope that Dean too was better off.

 

“We should drive it back to the cabin,” He said quietly, running a hand over the back-bumper, ignoring the slight grime that came away as he did so, remembering he had already mocked his son for that already and there was no use saying the same to the other. Sam didn’t reply, but he didn’t want to finish the conversation either. He had already walked past his father, grabbing the keys, showing quite obviously who would be doing the driving.

 

Sam brushed away the glass from the seat but instead of sitting he looked back up at his father, saying carefully;

 

“Use the gun, there can’t be more than four there-”

 

“Three bullets won’t be enough against the demon,”

 

“You only need one, Dad,”

 

“And what if I miss? What if the demon has some kind of loophole? We can’t risk that chance!”

“But we can risk Dean’s life? What the hell is wrong with you?” The argument was escalating yet again.

 

“Sam!”

 

“He’s your son!”

 

“I know!”

 

“Then start acting like you give a damn!”

 

He got in, slammed the door, forcing shards too loose to fall from the window pane, and backing away heading back to the cabin, his father tailing him from behind, eyes still blank, but heart already aching.

 

*-*-*

 

The ropes still wouldn’t give, they had been tied too tightly, and Dean had lost the energy to let the burning of his wrists continue each time he tried to break free. He was getting colder, and he couldn’t tell if he was shaking or not, he was too confused, his awareness suffering from a delay to the world around him; the dark dreary-cell-like word of that very moment.

 

His thoughts strayed to  _her_. They had killed her lover, or rather, Dad, had killed him; used the gun to put a bullet in his forehead. But he deserved it; after all, no one went after the youngest Winchester without paying for it, dearly. Dean had fought most of them, especially the school-bullies, the ghosts attracted to Sam’s ESP, though his brother would sternly explain that that’s exactly what it wasn’t. When they were younger, the ghosts had gone for the smallest hunter, more vulnerable, easier to overcome, to hurt – and in return, their asses were salted and sent back to wherever they came from in a blaze of glory.

 

Now, they went for the power, the tall one, the psychic one. Dean could feel it, though he’d never speak of it. He could see it in Sam’s eyes, so different, glowing with a new force of vengeance. Hatred. And a pinch of telekinesis. But that had been a one-off, Dean would often tell himself. Sam had seen his brother die, and it had caused a reaction; that was all. Nothing more. And he would kill himself before watching Sam turn into Max. And he knew Sam felt the same way.

 

He could hear her outside again, still with company, still wearing the same boots that  _clacked_  on the ground, still walking in that same aggravated pace, eager to do damage, but weary of someone who had managed to best her twice. But he hadn’t been alone then, and now, he was far from popular as far as dinner guests went.

 

The fence retreated for a moment, letting her step through, letting two others step through with her, before it was closed again. She came in glaring, with Dean lying on the ground, immobilized, she knelt in front of him, reaching behind her and taking out a knife, the sharp edge glinting as it reflected the tiny patch of light making its way through the cracks in stone. She snarled at him, and Dean tensed.

 

“Hold him down,” She instructed simply, and Dean instantly began to struggle when a twp Vampires stepped forward, one female, one male, and held him down with their superior strength. She raised the knife and all Dean could think about, all he could  _hear_  were his own words floating back to him.

 

_“...victims are taken to the nest where the pack keeps the alive, bleeding them for days...or weeks.”_

 

The morning was silent for a while, before the screams began.

 

**TBC  
**


	3. Chapter 3

**_If you hear me screaming please don't let me fall again_ **

 

She was straddling, her thighs pinning him to the ground, pushing down against his bound wrists beneath his body. The coarse rope biting further into his wrists, making the already irritated skin inflame further. He clenched his jaw at first, determined to never give her the pleasure of hearing him scream, but the knife raised in an arch was enough to make his heart skip a beat, and just as he thought she was going to end his life right then and there, a simple plunge and that would be it-

 

She changed direction; she slowed the knife’s momentum a millimetre before it hit skin. She twirled it for a second, her teeth bared, and eyes glinting like the edges of the knife. She traced it down his skin, beginning at his chin, lingering on his neck, and following down his chest, stopping for a moment near the leather cord of his unique pendant before looking him right in the eyes as she crossed over his abdomen, and into the crook of his jeans. He tensed visibly, close to flinching as she continued downward, and she smirked at the revelation of his mild fear.

 

“Did you do this to that boyfriend of yours?” Dean muttered intent on keeping his retorts until the end. Whenever that may be.

 

She stopped, her eyes shot up to his, and the fury that lay there, encased in eerie brown orbs made him question his own smart mouth.

 

“What?” She hissed, her tone reaching a higher pitch as her eyes widened in rage. He swallowed the lump in his throat and though he would never take back his words, he wouldn’t deny them either, he just stared right back. As if to say,  _you heard me_.

 

She grabbed the blade, tucked it into the back of her jeans quickly, and stood up, grabbing the front of Dean’s shirt and pulling him up at the same time. He staggered for a moment, his ankles still bound, and his balance thrown by the pounding of his head.

 

“He was more of a man than you’ll ever be,”

 

“ _Darlin’_ ” He mocked, “He wasn’t a man, and you sure as hell aren’t a woman.”

 

She backhanded him suddenly, his body falling down instantly from the harsh slap with far too much strength behind it. His jaw felt broken, though he knew it wasn’t, but he was sure the bruising had begun almost instantly from the hit. Normally he would have felt it gingerly, but without his hands...

 

He was stuck on his knees, and even that was a feat with the direction his legs were tied in. Gravity was against him, and being slapped around wasn’t helping his cause.

 

“You’ve got a nerve,”

 

He smirked. He couldn’t resist.

 

“You came to us, not the other way around; we weren’t doing any harm-”

 

“You turned that girl! Made her one of you! You killed Elkins!”

 

“Elkins was an enemy and we freed that girl, gave her more of a future that she would have ever had in that dreary mortal shell.”

Dean glared, well aware of the drivel she was churning out at surprising speeds. She turned, nodding at one of her companions still standing at the back of the cell.

 

Adam strode forward, not even pausing as he grabbed hold of Dean, and shoved him against the wall. Dean gritted his teeth at the fire of pain on his shoulder-blades and wrists as once again they were pinned beneath his own body, fingers bent against the cold stone wall.

 

There were simple methods to avoid a punch to the face, namely that of ducking.

 

But there were hands grabbing hold of him, one on his shoulder, holding so tightly he wouldn’t be surprised of the hand printed bruise that would no doubt be left behind, while the other was curled around his neck, pushing his head up against the wall, his eyes looking down to see what the hell was going on.

 

The fist hit him square in the nose. He felt the blood rush up and down, and the odd sensation of water swishing around inside of his brain came back to him. His ears practically rattled, and when she withdrew, blood poured from his nostrils. He growled, and went to move, but the hands held tighter up against the wall, and another fist hit him in the gut. He couldn’t even double over, and he couldn’t stop the cry he let out, so sure that a rib had cracked. He was allowed to fall to the ground like a rag doll, and as he lay on his back, groaning, his hands pushed into his kidneys painfully, he saw the knife being brandished once more.

 

The first cut, was the deepest, he was sure, as that was irony’s way of berating him, and clearly karma was a fan of Sheryl Crow…

 

It was cut in line with his ribs, following the bone, the bruising that was appearing allowing for a quicker blood flow. She didn’t even wait for it to trickle before she let her tongue trace over the cut. He bucked suddenly, and cried out; aware of her intentions, but the hold of her companions was back, now a hand being held over his mouth. Taking her fill of that cut, she made another incision, longer, but shallower, and repeated the gesture. She let trickles run past her lips, down the corners of her mouth and trailing down her chin before looking back at his horrified face.

 

She made another cut, slightly deeper than the second, on the other side of his abdomen, but paused as she was about to drink. She looked up around her, at the hungry faces waiting. She stepped back, standing up, and watched happily as one by one they took their turn to drink from the cuts, until the bucking of Dean’s body was weak enough for them to let go of him.

 

Unconsciousness never came, no matter how many times Dean’s soul begged for it.

 

*-*-*

 

“Dad, we have to go in there, you know we do.”

 

And Sam felt a slight victory dance well up and quell inside of him at his father’s sigh. The older man ran a hand through his hair, before facing Sam. Ever since the agonizing drive back to the cabin and the few moments where they had done nothing but pace, each of them running scenarios of rescues through their heads, John had anticipated the words, and he longed to see his boy again, safe and well.

 

_Before I send him on another hunt that could very well kill him..._

 

But he ignored the voice, that may well be his own conscience, and he continued at the task at hand.

 

“We go in quick, we find your brother and we get out. We can take care of the nest later on when we know he’s safe.”

 

The words were strung out, and in his more emotional state Sam had trouble truly grasping them for a moment. John continued.

 

“If things get bad, we leave, okay Sam? We’re no good to him dead.”

 

Sam nodded, swallowing the words with an acidic taste, an after burning that spread as far as his eyes. “Yes, sir.” He said simply and followed the man out to get their weapons.

 

*-*-*

 

“I can see them,” Kate confirmed, as together they peered through the cracks of the wood. She hadn’t doubted, not once, that the others would come for their captive, and a part of her wanted them to find him dead, but she had yet to finish with him, and she’d be damned if her head was cut off before she was done. They had left the hunter almost two hours ago, letting him gather strength lest he die too soon.

 

“What should we do?” Adam asked, having informed her, Kate, who it seemed had appointed herself as their new leader in the wake of her lover’s death, and now awaiting for orders. She gave none, only stared, and Adam tried another tactic.

 

“What are you planning exactly?”

 

“I want them to feel the pain I felt. To lose a loved one.”

 

Adam was glad Kate was too immersed in watching the two men creeping outside, for turned away as she was, she couldn’t see the quirk in his eyebrow, or the surprise at her use of such tender, and human, words.

 

“They have to pay,” She said simply, but at the emotion so evidently clear, Adam wondered what it was they were actually getting themselves into. He had seen the hunters, and they were damned good. What if they had the weapon again? They would have to act quicker, much quicker if they attacked. They had to be ready, and he dimly wondered if they could reach their full potential with an emotionally female at the lead.

 

*-*-*

 

For some time he had lain on the floor, willing his head to stop spinning, screaming in his mind that if he let that tear fall, it would be the last thing he ever did. They had left him alone, weak, aching, and though bruising and bleeding, he knew would surely die if he couldn’t start defending himself. He would never let them do that again, he could not. He used his forehead to balance the rest of his body as he made it to his knees. He shuffled backwards best he could, until the soles of his heels were brushing against the wall, and he was close enough to lean back into it.

 

Pressing out his elbows, and using the corner of the second wall, he crept upward to a standing position. He had been tied up before, and as kinky as it would sound to any other hearing it, not once had the situation brought him pleasure. Then again, that succubus in Houston had looked pleasant enough...before the life-sucking-preying-mantis-wannabe thing made itself known of course.

 

He was still leaning against the wall with shaky feet, his legs trembling, but he managed to straighten somewhat. He took a breath, aware that what he was about to attempt would surely throw him off balance and planting his face onto the cold cement floor, but it would be worth it if it worked.

 

He counted to three quickly, before taking a small jump, getting his bearings, testing the pain; he counted again, rolling his shoulders for the same reasons. He counted again, jumped and twisted his shoulders at the same time. Mid-jump he drew his legs up as close to him as he could, as his father had taught him and Sam after a close-call up in Illinois. He brought his arms underneath his feet, unable to contain the grin when he looked at them, still tied, but now in front of him.

 

He grimaced at the site of the bloody rope, and winced at the pain beginning to ache in his arms, shoulders and knees. His legs buckled, the strain too much, and it was then that he was joined by the vampires again, who’s strained voices were far more concerned with something else than noticing Dean’s new hand position.

 

The hands grabbed him too quickly, too roughly and before he could use his new ability to make use of his hands, their grasps took hold of his bloody torso and he couldn’t stop the scream he let out at the burning pain lacing through him.

 

*-*-*

 

They had grabbed their machetes and ran through the woods once more, having covered their clothes in the ash once more, cloaking their scent as they crept closer. They had no more poison left for the vampires, and there was no time to get more. They waited outside for a moment, and after both Sam and John had looked inside the cracks on either side of the large barn’s door, and seen no one, they had entered. The dark surroundings were too familiar for their liking, the stench too horrid, and their fears unrelenting in their minds. They stood stock still, observing, taking in every detail, and straining their ears for their enemies and victim. Brother, son. Dean. The silence was pushed away at the cry.

 

John heard it and took it with a quick swallow of his emotions, a growl, and a new found hatred against anyone who laid a hand on his boy. Sam heard the scream, his brother’s voice in such obvious pain and couldn’t help but retaliate.

 

“Dean!” He shouted through the barn.

 

  
_“Sam!”_  John hissed at his son’s sudden cry but after a seconds pause, and the sounds of obvious hushing, fumbling;

 

“SAM!” The cry came back full-fold.

 

And now John was brought to a standstill.

 

...at both cries.

 

Sam could have just given their enemies the advantage, but Dean-Dean was conscious, and he was aware and that was more than he could have ever asked for. John looked to the darkness at the back of the building, seeing the glinting of their inhuman eyes, watching, before they stepped forward. John braced himself for a brawl, but almost dropped the machete when the cargo was pushed forward, roughly to the dirty ground. Another cry, a soft moan at the jarring of his wounds. Dean didn’t have the chance to scramble toward his father before Kate’s hand grabbed his tussled hair, yanking him to his knees, forcing him to bare his teeth at the pain, his chin pointed outward to his family.

 

Sam felt his heart beating hard against his chest at the treatment of his brother, and was more than angry now. He clutched the machete tighter and was about to run forward, almost foolishly when Adam leapt forward, flying over Dean’s head, landing in front of Sam, and taking hold of the machete before either could blink, swinging it and halting just before he sliced Sam’s jugular in half.

 

“Make a single move, and he’s dead.” He hissed; his eyes trained on Sam, while his ears were well aware of every move the older man dared make, the rest of the remaining nest doing the opposite, knowing that Adam could handle the boy. They were surrounding any escape routes, or ways of getting to Dean, to helping him, saving him, but they kept him in view, as though to taunt the one they knew to be the father. As if to say,  _look what you’ve done_.

 

Dean’s eyes were wide as he looked on. He wouldn’t deny how much he had wished his family would rescue him, but now-now Sam’s life was in danger again, and all eyes were trained on John this time. If he had the colt with him there was no way he could get to it before Sam’s neck was slashed to pieces. Not one of them paid Dean any heed, after all, he was the one bleeding, and tied up, what was he going to do? He had had enough of waiting, enough of kneeling their not doing a thing. The vampire in front of him was leaning up and down on her foot, and he knew if he leaned forward enough, pushing himself to the limit, he might be able to grab Adam’s ankle. It was worth a try, and it was a hell of a lot better than kneeling down on the ground and watching his brother die.

 

  
_Heel up, heel down, heel up_  –

 

He braced his toes and leapt, his body began to fall almost immediately but he had already made the small distance, his shoulder pushed into the girl’s foot, and she fell forward, while Dean reached, and pulled on Adam, giving a sufficient amount of gap for Sam to duck away from the machete.

 

“Run!” Dean shouted with all his might, before receiving a swift kick to the head for his trouble. That alone kept him quiet permanently as he fell into darkness, hearing the thumping of his father’s feet as he ran, half dragging Sam out of there, who still cried out desperately for his brother. Screaming at the treatment, before the silence took precedent over Dean’s senses and all was nothing. Nothing at all.

 

**TBC**


	4. Chapter 4

**_Lay me down. Wash this blood off of my hands for me while I cry out_ **

 

He pulled again at the ropes. Thankfully now in front of him rather than behind, though it amused him that the vampires had yet to notice, or care about that much. Not that they had any reason to. Even in front of him, they were still impossible to get out of, only letting Dean see the damage he was inflicting on the precious skin so near to the blood-filled veins as he struggled desperately against the bonds. He wondered to himself if leaving him alone for such long spaces of time was part of the punishment. That’s what he was calling it, by the way. Torture seemed too dark and morbid, and if he was honest, it scared him a hell of a lot more than punishment did. After all, he had received the latter often.

 

From not handing essays in on time (though granted the teacher’s let it go when they saw the quality he could churn out when he wanted to) to not doing his very best on a hunt, and having the lecture of a lifetime from his father. And now being bled like a piece of meat in a butcher’s shop, ready to be chopped up into little pieces.

 

  
_Now you’re just being ridiculous_ , half of his brain told the other half at the meat-joke, and he deduced that this half, the one that still carried an ounce of optimism, had not been the one feeling the brunt of the earlier torture.

 

_Damn it._

 

He swore at his own inner monologue use of the word. He felt stronger than earlier, and a part of him put it down to the adrenaline rush at knowing that his family was safe. For now at least. After all, he wasn’t stupid enough to hope they wouldn’t try to come back for him. But since waking up he knew too things.

 

His captors? They were angry, incredibly so. And hungry, to which the thought made him shudder in disgust.

 

The second thing?

 

They had moved, this was not the same cell he remembered from before. It even smelt different, and he knew they were squatting in a different building, abandoned or otherwise, it would be even harder for a rescue to take place now. Maybe that was for the best. If he died, then that would ensure his family’s safety, not that he wanted to die. But he’d be more than willing for them, for his brother and father. His sense of surroundings had completely gone to pot, and quite frankly, he felt he had spent far too much time in the company of the dead for his liking.

 

And though he’d never admit it, the thought of being their meal again, scared him more than anything. He would not be used like that. Ever again.

 

His torso was blood, crimson trails sweeping down his chest, drying, and caking on his jeans, leaving stains that would be a bitch, he knew, to be rid of. The cuts stung, the blood, sticking shirt to skin, not to mention the worries of infection increasing with every moment he spent in the damp dreary room in god-knows-where. He had been feeling hot, but shivering ever since he had woken up, and had he been able to touch his forehead with his palm, he was sure there would be the beginnings of a fever.

 

_Things just keep getting better and better._

 

*-*-*

 

When Adam strayed in, close after their female leader, they saw that their captive had resorted to staying, lying, on the ground. Both vampire’s faces were far from happy, glaring and clearly blaming Dean for all of their misfortunes when it was their fault for taking him in the first place. Or was it John’s fault for shooting Kate’s lover. Or their fault for going after Elkins and taking the gun? Even his thoughts were rambling, definitely an indication of the onset of a fever.  _Great_.

 

Dean felt a feeling of pleasure that lasted for a miniscule second at knowing he had helped cause that grim reception, before realising it wasn’t in his best interest to do appreciate such things that could lead to his death. Or worse. Instead he tried to catch the conversation he had now missed. The other vampires were restless, and Adam was telling his leader that much.

 

“They’re freaking out, thanks to this piece of crap.” He kicked Dean in the groin, leaving the man to double up in obvious pain, unable to avoid the pain, or stop the cry before it left his lips. Adam’s eyes glittered at the sound, and watched Dean as he brought his arms up to shield from a second attack that never came. Instead, Kate was now in front of him.

 

“Why are you doing this?” She asked, crouching down before him, her hands resting on her knees as she cocked her head to the side and stared at the shaking form at her feet. He was shaking, tiny tremors betraying the freeze his body was convinced he was under even though his skin was on fire.

 

“What have we ever done to you?” She asked, unaware, or unperturbed by his worsening condition, though he wouldn’t be surprised if she could smell it on him.

 

Dean snorted, she was asking again. The same questions with different words. His father had always hated his habit of patronising demon’s, snorting in their face, mocking their enemies so simply but she barely even noticed the sound anymore. She was still staring at him, and Dean was tiring of finding spots to stare at other than her curious, and angry gaze.

 

“Someone has to stop you,” Dean said simply, rasping somewhat. “You’re a murderer,”

 

“So are you,”

 

Dean looked at her, knowing that wasn’t true. Though his black and white interpretation of the world had often made him question a human’s right to live at all with the monstrosities at their hands, but he had never actually killed one. The only things he had killed were creatures. Werewolves were the worst he supposed, they tended to change back into their human form almost instantly, leaving Dean standing there as the shot man or woman, sometimes even a child, appeared at his feet, looking so innocent once the fur had been shed, and the claws retreated into fingernails.

 

“I hunt with my family, you hunt with yours.” She broke in, her smile devoid of any happy thoughts. And that stopped him cold. He looked up at her, unable to hide his surprise.

 

“I can taste it in your blood,” She said, off of his look, “Can smell it in theirs. You’re the oldest of two...”

 

Dean wondered if this was all supposed to be a revelation to him, and resisted the urge to shout out  _duh_! But he would be lying if he said it didn’t disturb him how much information she could garner from their scent and –he shuddered again- taste.

 

She looked back at Adam.

 

“Have you caught their scent?” She asked, referring to the remaining Winchesters at large.

 

“No, they’re long gone by now, guess this guy wasn’t too important after all,” He said, gesturing toward Dean as if he wasn’t awake and listening, who in turn growled, and Kate grinned, standing up, and bending over her prey.

 

“Hear that? No one’s coming for you now, no one.”

 

Dean lay his head back down on the ground, his head still spinning, his body burning, and his eyes glazed. He barely even registered the fear he should feel at the words, he just felt numb. Cold, hot, tingling, yes, but mainly, just numb.

 

*-*-*

 

“They’re probably just masking it with something,” Adam said in a whisper, “Hiding their scent until they’re ready to try and get him back, to  _find_  him.” He continued, having waited outside for his friend, and now walking with her away from their captive.

 

“I know, and when they get here there’ll be nothing left to find. We probably don’t have much time, go see if you can find out how close they are,” She said simply, taking the authoritative position her lover had left behind.

 

*-*-*

 

  
_“Sam,”_  John couldn’t believe they were having this conversation again, but he had to admit to his son’s point.

 

“We have to try again. They’ve had him for nearly a day, Dad, yes we’re down one man, but they’re down over half of their pack. We can take them, I know we can.”

 

John looked at his son, whom he knew to be more than capable, but he couldn’t shake the image of him being choked two nights ago. How his boys had come to his rescue, and almost gotten killed.

 

“Where have they gone, Sam? We have a better chance of saving your brother here than if we took to the road and searched.”

 

“Maybe we should get help...” Sam said carefully, leaving the suggestion open, receiving a quirked eyebrow that told him to continue, or rather, explain himself.

 

“The law enforcing kind.”

 

“And what are you going to tell them, Sam? Vampires took your brother?”

“No,” He said, tense, “Just that he’s missing,”

 

“They’ll want to do it by the book that means reporting it, and ignoring any leads we might already have.”

 

“We have to do something.”

 

“Well we can’t go to the police. What happens when they ask for a name, Sam? We can’t give your brother an alias if he doesn’t know what one’s being used, and we sure as hell can’t give his real name.”

 

Sam wondered if his father knew why that was, and chose to feign ignorance.

 

“Why not?”

“Because in case you hadn’t noticed, Dean Winchester is buried in St Louis.”

 

“So you heard about that, then.”

 

“You’d be surprised how many people remember your number when they find out your son’s dead,” He said, slyly, then added, “And suspected for murder. Got a lot of messages that day.”

 

Sam looked at his father, and again wondered if maybe that had affected the older man. He hadn’t said anything about the faith-healer incident, but maybe seeing his son accused of murder and dead had irked him somewhat.

 

“How did you find out? I mean before the phone calls?”

 

“Saw a sketch on the front of a news paper that looked suspiciously like your brother. Read the article,” He paused for a moment, “Dean Winchester, twenty-eight, deceased.” His tone was hollow and Sam almost flinched.

 

So it  _had_  irked him...

 

“You know, you never called back when I told you about Dean... _dying_.”

 

John sighed, avoiding his son’s gaze.

 

“I-I didn’t know what to say.” He said after a while. “I couldn’t have gotten over there; it wouldn’t have done any good.” And when Sam was about to retort, his father cut him off with a hand resembling Dean’s own attempt to rid the moment, saying, “Don’t Sam.”

 

And the boy complied, scanning the surrounding area, left with the image of his injured brother still searing in his mind’s eye, now doubling with memories of Dean on a hospital bed telling him there was no stopping his death. Suddenly his father’s hand was against his mouth, clasping somewhat and pinching his cheeks, as he put a finger to his own mouth.

 

“Shh,” He hissed suddenly, though Sam had been silent as it was, and slowly guided them away from view, just as he had suspected upon hearing the crackling of the leaves.

 

And then they saw him, lurking, crouching down and searching the area, sniffing  _something_ , but so far not them. They were still hiding their scent. He growled, aware that he would now have hunt the old fashioned way-something he hadn’t done for some time. He wondered if maybe he relied too much on his nose to attack, and he cursed himself for being so stupid when he was tackled suddenly, and pinned to the ground.

 

He snarled, and bucked against the hold, but Sam was on his shoulders and John on the rest of his body, keeping him down.

 

“Where have they taken him?” He asked, in anger, practically spitting in the vampire’s face. Adam stayed silent, smirking, and making Sam frown at the homicidal thoughts running through his head suddenly. John reached into his pocket quickly, taking out a bottle and uncorking it with his teeth. He was vaguely aware of Sam reaching for the machete, keeping it even closer than before, as John tilted the container, until tiny droplets fell to the vampire’s skin, sinking through his shirt and burning. The water fizzed, small billows of smoke lifting from the searing skin. He cried out in pain, but otherwise remained quiet.

 

“You’re not getting out of this alive,” John said simply, machete still at the man’s neck just as Adam had had it against Sam’s earlier. Adam scoffed, as if he didn’t know as much, but if they thought that threat was going to get them anywhere-

 

His inner monologue was cut off abruptly as the blade changed course, now resting on his hip, and straying downward, the man’s eyes saying the silent threat, and Adam gulped. Un-dead or no, that would hurt. He bared his teeth at the man, daring him carefully, but the blade did not falter.

 

“Where is my son?”

 

Nothing, no response and so John moved the blade again, closer to the more sensitive areas of a man’s anatomy.

 

_“Where,”_

 

His voice was low, dangerously so, threatening and eerie as Sam looked on. The blade made a slight rip in the vampire’s trouser folds.

 

“ _Is,_ ”

 

Another tear and the blade was through to the skin, the sentence continuing, the anger only escalating to calm fury, something deadly in a Winchester.

 

“ _My son?_ ”

 

He pressed down...

 

“Okay, okay!” Adam cried, pleading and as the blade retreated somewhat, though not completely, he whispered more quietly, “Okay,”

 

John waited, staring hard at Adam, who swallowed before he spoke. “Keep on the road, second turning,” The knife was back, and threatening once more as he sped up his speech. “T-there’s a farm up ahead, small barn at the b-back.”

 

John looked at him, a grim expression on his face as he weighed up the honesty of the vampire, who still looked quiet afraid for his body’s well being. Finally he supposed he really was telling the truth, he removed the blade, allowed Adam to take a calming breath, relieved, and then John swung again, the Vampire’s last expression being that of horror as his head was lopped off and rolling away with open-dead, even more so than before, eyes.

 

The silent staring of the Winchesters at the decapitated head of their enemy only lasted a moment, before Sam recalled the information, the priceless news they now grasped.

 

“Dad-”

 

“I know, Sam,” John cut his youngest off mid speech, already aware of the ever persistent want to find Dean sooner rather than later. The words of the now-headless Vampire were spinning around his head, echoing in the back of his mind. Sam watched him, with something akin to relief to know that they would finally get Dean back, as he opened up the trunk, handing the second machete to his son, while he used a cloth to wipe away the splatter on his own.

 

“We’ve got work to do.”

 

**TBC**


	5. Chapter 5

**_Don't let me die before I go to sleep. I can't keep going but I cannot start again_ **

 

Dean glared at the door when it swung open, clenching his fists when Kate strolled in. She had grown impatient waiting for Adam, who she now treated as her second in command, and aware that her hunger was satisfied enough for now, meant that for all of her adventures over the last few days, she was bored, bored of waiting for the grandeur of getting her revenge. Tired of waiting for yet another rescue attempt that she knew would either leave her with two more corpses, two more captives, or nothing as she was defeated.

 

“Let’s see how long you can hold your own.” She said cryptically, before assuming a defensive stance, and challenging Dean with her body language. Hand to hand combat had been something of a necessity, being used less and less as time flew by and more and more unsuspecting passers by could be fooled by the dead-in-the-road trick they had perfected. There was no need for fighting, when the basics were nothing more than catching the victims by surprise, subduing them, kidnapping them, and bleeding them dry.

 

“A little unfair, don’t you think?” He replied, indicating his bound wrists, and feet. Not to mention the injuries he had already sustained at her malicious hand.

 

“Well I _am_  a harmless little girl,” She mocked simply, feigning innocence, and making her appearance seem tackier.

 

He stayed where he was, waiting for her, and just as he had suspected, her impatience made her lunge toward him. He caught her fist in between his forearms, and simply stared at her, incredulous at the display of recklessness on her part. Granted she did have the advantage, but what if Dean won? What then? She was letting her anger drive her, and Dean saw it as an opening.

 

She pulled away, jumping back somewhat before lunging again and Dean jumped out of the way at the last minute, hitting the wall slightly to ensure his balance stayed intact. He couldn’t believe she was actually snarling in his direction. Spitting, hissing like an animal. Her fighting gave her the very air of one unhinged, and he supposed in all likelihood, that she was.  _Incredibly so._  


 

“Why are you even doing this?” Dean asked, incredulous that the woman was still attacking when it was clear she had won. Her face looked pensive for a second, wondering which reason she could pick, before leaning in, and settling for;

 

“I like to practice.” She said, aiming another kick at his midsection, to which Dean narrowly avoided as he jumped backwards.

 

“Well, that’s bull.” Dean remarked, breathing hard, swallowing the excess saliva in an attempt to clear his foggy brain. His vision was titling too often for his liking, but fever or no, he could tell a lie from a mile away.

 

She struck at him once more, and too preoccupied with staying upright, Dean didn’t have the time to block. The blow hit him hard in the head, his vision not only swimming but now glittering with unwanted sparks, stars in the blanketing darkness edging too close.

He wasn’t sure how long he could keep this up. Jumping out of the way, dodging her kicks and hits, not when his head was pounding, his body still shivering, small droplets of sweat glistening atop his forehead. He waited for another attack and to his surprise watched her head tilt, listening to someone, before leaving the room.

 

It worried him that the blood rushing in his ears was loud enough to drown out all else.

 

Once alone, his first thoughts had been stay awake, stay conscious, stay alive, but then the voices outside got louder, and he couldn’t focus on his thoughts anymore when the squeals of panic demanded his attention.

 

“They took Adam’s  _head_!”

 

And he knew full well who they were, his father, his brother.

 

_Not coming for me, my ass._

 

 “That’s it Kate! We have to leave, we have to  _go_!” She was hysterical in her screams, loud enough for Dean to hear, and smirk at. The male vampire was dead, or rather, eliminated, for good, and as much as he hated leaning toward being sexist, he supposed it would be easier now that the odds were two against two, male versus female. And by the incessant,  _come on!_  The girl was still crying he knew Kate wouldn’t be leaving like a coward.

 

*-*-*

 

Sam readied the arrow, well aware of how perfect his aim had to be if he wanted this to work. They had no more blood to douse the arrows in, and no time to let the vampire get away, their purpose was to distract alone, buying time for him to kill them indefinitely with the machete in its sheath.

 

She, with short blonde hair, strayed out of the door, taking a quick look around the woods surrounding their new nest. She surveyed it as closely as she could in the moonlight, before the immense pressure that slammed into her chest, and through the barn door, kept her in place.

 

He ran forward with great stealth, swinging just as she had thought about screaming.

 

The decapitated head rested at his feet, but he took no time in relishing in the kill.

 

The Winchesters could be damn-near perfect hunters when they wanted to be. They could sneak with the best of them, hide, and plan to perfection. Fight like mad men, even when they were at their most sane, but on occasion, there were some things that threw caution to the wind.

 

For Dean, it was whenever Sammy and his father’s life were in jeopardy.

 

For Sam, it was whenever Dean and his father’s life were in jeopardy.

 

For John, it was whenever Sam and Dean’s lives were in jeopardy.

 

No one messed with family, especially not theirs. The supernatural should know better by now, because with their track-record, nothing was left standing in their wake, and John was already regretting not having the forward thinking to hunt down the remaining vampires in the pack and killing each and every one of them before they had the chance to hurt his son.

 

*-*-*

 

The atmosphere seemed all the more tense the next time she came back in. Her jaw was set, eyes ablaze with yet more hatred directed at him. But the tinge of insanity he had presumed to have glimpsed earlier. Her eyes were clear, save for the fury that drove her ever onward, ever closer to him, making him cringe at the thought of his space being intruded by a creature of her nature.

 

The same one who had licked his cuts, tasted his blood, smeared it across her lips as she relished the taste of fresh-

 

_Stop it._

 

He focused on the present moment once more, she was circling him, though there really was no need. He had resorted to slumping against the wall, his ankles aching, his feet burning, hot skin against the cold surfaced ground, his sides bruising and hurting, bleeding, and his head still throbbing. She looked him up and down, wondering if it was worth it. And obviously deciding it was.

 

“Do you know how long vampires mate for?” She asked casually, almost rhetorically. Dean knew, but he didn’t say a word.

 

“ _Life._ ” She whispered. “One mate, forever.” She was getting far too close now, but pushing her back would do no good, especially if she retaliated with more anger than he could withstand.

 

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to lose someone you’re that close to?”

 

“If you were so close, why were you out looking for new friends?” Dean gritted out, head still spinning nauseatingly. She slapped him across the face, leaving the stinging impression of her hand on his cheek. His head flew to the side, but he wasted no time dwelling on the hurt before facing her once more.

 

“You and yours took him from me.” Her voice was changing, becoming more predominate, and precise, as though every word counted.

 

“He pulled the trigger to save the other, and to save you, I wonder how he’ll feel when he finds you?” Her finger danced across his chest, the nail catching in the rips of the material that had once been a favourite shirt of his. “I wonder how he’ll feel, when he sees your corpse?”

 

Still Dean kept quiet, watching her eyes as they stared at him squarely, unaware of the hand behind her back.

 

“I wonder...”

 

The move was quick, the last syllables of the word barely spoken before she pounced, her hand spinning, the knife shining. He saw it too late, and his body was too slow, too sluggish to comprehend the danger in time, or to obey his own orders of  _move!_ He managed to somewhat, but not enough. Blade found skin, and red pooled quickly from him. Another slice as the knife was pulled free, and Dean sank to his knees before falling onto his back, and lying on the ground.

 

For a moment she watched him as his uselessly bound hands tried to staunch the bleeding somehow before giving up, his head bobbing up and down from the ground as he tried to get a better look as the pain washed over him, agony increasing, panic levels rising. She didn’t leave until his head stayed still lying back against the ground. Conscious or no, he was giving up.

 

Her work was done.

 

Luther would have been proud, she was sure.

 

*-*-*

 

John reacted first. This particular pack of vampires were not exactly graceful, their fleeting numbers giving them the disadvantage of having to cope on their own, and now, small as they were, they’re hiding skills left much to be desired. The female he had shot a night or so ago, when to be exact he could never be sure, his mind tended to veer off toward the one-tracked-kind when one of his son’s went missing as Dean had. She crept behind the stacked crates, moving back and forth, weaving, trying to get closer, unaware of how painfully obvious her attempt-to-hide were to the skilled hunters, watching her every move. Waiting.

 

Sam’s teeth were bared, as he took in a deep breath through his nostrils, flaring in anger as he realised it was she who had caused his brother pain, and she would be the one to which justice would be carried out. Ten fold, if Sam had anything to do with it.

 

She dared a chance and looked over to her prey, before stopping. They were gone, but as she crept forward she was shoved back into the wall, suddenly. Only one hunter, the older one, standing in front, glaring with a deep, dark, fury, that made her want to smile through her terror, while Sam, continued through the lair, intent on finding Dean and destroying the last of the pack while his father took on the widow.

 

“Where is my son?” John asked calmly, a contrast to his true feelings, his voice cold and calculating as he held the machete in front of him, with Kate backed into a wall. She laughed, “Why would I tell you?”

 

John paused. To anyone else, unaware of the ways of the eldest Winchester, they might have thought him stalling, searching for words that would make him more intimidating, and indeed this was the same mistake Kate herself made.

 

_Thwap!_

 

The sound cut through the air and hit something with a thud. There was a cry, before a final bang as the body hit the floor. John continued to listen, and Kate could do nothing but. Footsteps, a swing, the blade no doubt shaking from the speed, and a final, sickening slice, and a constant rhythm of a head rolling...

 

She swallowed rather than cringe in front of the hunter. Her lover’s murderer. 

“Because sweetheart; your nest is empty. You’re the last one here, and there’s no use in not telling me.”

 

“You’re terrified he’s already dead, why should I help you after you killed Luther?”

 

“That’s what this is all about? Revenge?”

 

“Among other things,”

 

“So why the hell didn’t you come after me? I’m the one who shot him, not Dean!”

 

“But why kill you when I could hurt you more through him?” She asked simply, before cackling madly. The sound reverberated all around him, laughter bouncing off of the dank walls, and shooting past his ears, hitting him square in the face as he lost reign of his emotions, his only thoughts of his son, his son in pain, his son taken because of her, and now she laughed? Now she was pleased?

 

  
_“Dad!”_  John heard Sam cry suddenly, and the laughing only increased. John could take no more. He knew Sam would never have called if he hadn’t found something, and in retaliation to the maniacal laughing, he cried out, almost like that of a last soldier on the battle field of ages, as he brought the machete down in a swift motion, slicing her head straight off her shoulders, and stopping the laughter from continuing on. He was running in Sam’s direction before the headless body had a chance to fall to the ground.

 

“Sam?” He called back, and another  _“Dad!”_  met his response, guiding him closer to his son.

 

  
_Sons_ , he hoped. He rounded the corner and saw a fenced barrier opened. He stepped through the hole and stopped short. Sam was kneeling next to his brother. Dean, his strong soldier, with his eyes close, and pallor ghostly save for the harsh multicoloured bruising to his skin, lying, propped up against his younger brother’s bent knees, his wrists at his side, skin shafted, sitting as though there were no bones inside.

 

He lay so still, save for the occasional shake that worried him to no end. So steady, and unconscious, maybe even-

 

_No, no, he can’t be._

 

John felt the bile in his throat as he saw the ropes tossed away into the corner, that Sam must have gotten rid of and he could see the condition of his oldest’ wrists. Raw and bloody, much like the rest of him. His ankles looked slightly swollen, and he could see the same nasty rope-burn marks circling them too. A gash on his temple had left a long trail of blood on the side of his face that had since dried, covering the bruising sustained there, and fingerprints on his neck. John could see his son’s clothes were torn and ripped, with red shining through. God, what had they done to his boy?

 

The worst though, was where Sam’s hands lay, large palms held directly over a growing patch of red, staining Dean’s stomach, Sam’s hands and the floor beneath with crimson liquid.

 

“Dad?” Sam’s voice was so much quieter now, as he tried to stop the bleeding, and it snapped John out of his stupor. He practically flew over to his eldest, landing on his knees and trying to rouse him carefully,

 

“Dean? Dean? Come on, Dean, wake up,” He was stroking the boys hair, matted with sweat and blood. “Dean,” He said more firmly, hoping a direct order would be enough to rouse the boy, but it was not. As soon as he touched the boy’s skin he felt the heat, but knew from the shivering that his body was cold.

 

He quickly shed his jacket and shirt, using the shirt to press against the wound on his son’s stomach. Sam’s hands fell away, still stained with so much blood, and he helped lift Dean up as John wrapped the warm jacket around his son’s body, before putting his hands beneath the boy, and getting to his feet, lifting Dean into his arms and taking fast strides out of the lair.

 

Sam followed without a word, running to keep up as his father raced to the truck, the keys left in the ignition in their hurry to get in. John said nothing as he put Dean in feet first, lying on the backseat, his head resting on his father’s knees, as Sam wordlessly got into the driving seat, and turning the keys in a swift move, pushing the truck to its limits in hopes of getting to the hospital quicker.

 

“Sam, head for the cabin,” John said, still stroking his son’s hair with one hand, and keeping the other pressed firmly over the bleeding wound.

 

“No,” Sam said firmly, stepping on the accelerator further.

 

“Sam!” John couldn’t believe his son was picking this time of all to rebel against his orders, but Sam only had Dean’s best interest at heart.

 

“We’re taking him to the hospital.” Sam said simply, continuing to drive.

 

“They’ll ask too many questions, Sam, we can’t.” And as much as Sam wanted to hate his father for caring about such a thing when he himself could barely breathe knowing of the fire condition of his brother, he could still see his father’s face as he looked down at Dean. He could still see his father’s shoulder and arm moving and knew full well that he was still stroking his brother’s hair, telling himself everything would be fine.

 

*-*-*

 

The long roads still stretched out before them, but Sam was now more than relieved to see the beginnings of a town appear. Shops and houses on the sides of the roads, they passed a church and Sam felt himself breath again. He scanned every sign until finally seeing the ones directing him to the main hospital, though he supposed it was more like a large clinic considering how small the population of the town looked to be.

 

The building, seemingly white, loomed over them as Sam stopped right outside the doors to the ER, and his father wasted no time in jumping out, and reaching back in carefully for his son, holding the weight all on his own as the doors opened automatically and they called out for assistance. The response was immediate, almost surprising but they didn’t know what they looked like. They had garnered attention from the get go, both of them breathing heavily, covered in blood, and holding on to an unconscious burden, too pale and still for any doctor’s liking.

 

An emergency gurney was thrust beneath their noses, and doctors and nurses were taking Dean away from his father’s grasp, shouting orders across each other as they assessed the damage. John and Sam followed quickly, and as they made their way to the trauma room, the doctor questioned quickly.

 

“What happened?”

 

“Knife wound to the abdomen,” John said, meticulously, pointing out the life threatening wound, rather than the minor wounds littering his son’s body. “He’s lost a lot of blood,”

 

“Do you know him?” He asked, as they neared the double doors.

 

“I’m his father,” John said simply, and the doctor nodded in understanding of the grim, sad, and pained expression.

 

“Is he allergic to any drugs that you know of?” A voice, one of the interns asked, as procedure proceeded.

 

“No, no, nothing, just-god, just help him.” But when he moved to follow his son, Sam by his side following suit, as Dean was pushed into the trauma room, one of the nurses closest to him stopped them.

 

“I’m sorry, sir, you can’t go in there,”

 

“What? He’s my son!”

 

“You have to let them do their jobs; I promise you a doctor will come talk to you about your son’s condition as soon as they can.”

 

And she disappeared behind the double doors that swung for a moment before staying completely still. Two Winchesters stood in the semi-bustling corridors staring at the spot as the activity around them didn’t cease, but they stood completely still.

 

**TBC  
**


	6. Chapter 6

**_At least a million times I've fallen but never will I break_ **

Searching wasn’t enough, the prize wasn’t in effort, quality; it was quantity, winning, that’s what mattered. Dean mattered, finding Dean mattered, nothing else but his brother mattered, so when every god damn turn led him to nowhere, a somewhere seeming further away, a somewhere with Dean, waiting for him, waiting for a rescue, waiting to be saved.

 

Or not waiting at all, not breathing, not living, not  _being_ , just...gone.

 

There were echoes all around him, echoes of himself, echoes of his voice, as he called out, terrified, his voice like a child, his voice like an adult, his voice full of fear. Searching, ever searching, for something that may or may not be there.

 

“Dean! Dean!”  _Where are you?_  


 

_Please say he’s here, please, please…_

 

“DEAN!” He bellowed, reverberating and bouncing away off of every wall, crashing into each other as the echoes continued down the hall, and Sam kept repeating the name, screaming for his brother. He broke off into a run down the corridor, searching blindly for a hope. Each door he passed he pushed open to reveal yet another empty, bare room. Again and again, it creaked and slammed back against its hinges to reveal nothing, again and again, until Sam reached the end of the corridor. Saw the fenced off hole in the wall.  

 

His shoulder was already hurting from the effort of jamming it against the previous walls and doors; he stepped back, aimed his foot, and kicked it open.  _T.J Hooker_ , and Dean himself would be proud. Dust and small pieces of the fence fell from the makeshift doorway, and as it cleared, Sam held back a gasp at what he saw, and ran in.

Dean was curled up on his side, his body dipped in red, and his skin bruised, his clothes in tatters. His knees were bent awkwardly away from them, and his hands were in front of him. The ropes were digging in and Sam went to take them off, wincing at how deeply the rope burns ran.

 

_“Oh god, no. No.”_

But he was already too late...

 

“Dean!”

 

Sam shot awake from his father’s quick shake on his shoulder. He had been fitful in his sleep, that much was obvious, and his father was looking at him with concern.

 

“You okay?”

 

“Yeah-yeah I’m fine,”

 

“You called out for your brother.”

 

Sam felt a blush rise in his cheeks. “I did?”

 

John nodded and Sam swallowed the lump gathering in his throat as he tried to forget the flashback his nightmares had brought on. They had finally sat down on the most-uncomfortable seats known to man after more than three people had banged into them. They had sat in silence, the tension growing with the hours that dragged by as they were left uninformed of Dean’s condition. Sam hadn’t realised he was that tired, but he now regretted ever leaning his head against the wall. Not only had it brought on nightmares, but he could have missed something important, and his neck was cricking each time he moved it.

 

“Anything?” He asked his voice somewhat hoarse from the dryness in his mouth. He only said the one word, but John knew fully well what he wanted. He wanted more than what he had fallen asleep on, he wanted more than the doubts and fears that had pushed him over the edge of exhaustion. He wanted to know how his brother was and John couldn’t tell him something he didn’t know himself. He shook his head and Sam couldn’t help but let go of the predictable sigh, and a quick run through of his growing locks.

 

“What time is it?” He asked finally, trying to adjust his long frame to the uncomfortable seats, vaguely attributing the constant fidgeting to immense worry rather than the fault of the ridiculous uncomfortable chairs. John looked up slowly, having spent so long during Sam’s fretful sleep simply staring at his hands, wringing them within each other, eyes trailing across fingers, turning them over and re-tracing the lines on his palms, flexing the muscles, cracking the knuckles before settling on simply bowing his head, his thumbs pushing against the bridge of his nose as if to ward off the fear inside of his head.

 

The clock ticked ominously, filling the desperate silence of the sterile corridor, not bustling, not busy, just still, depressingly so, as though the atmosphere around them were as numb as they felt, grasping on to hope and ever waiting for news.

 

“Five am.” John answered quietly, his own head mulling over exactly what that meant.

 

It had been eight hours since they had prepared themselves for a rescue mission. Sharpening their blades as they waited for the opportune moment.

 

Seven hours since they had killed them all, and found him. Found Dean, in a pool of-

 

Six hours since they had trumped through the doors of the hospital with their precious cargo finally found.

 

Five hours and 45 minutes since the doctor, after a quick assessment of the critical injuries said quite simply that surgery was needed.

 

Four hours since they had stopped their pacing and sat down.

 

Three hours and a half since Sam had finally fallen asleep, his head titled against the wall in a position that would hurt when he woke.

 

He didn’t have time for this. He couldn’t just wait around here, there was a demon out there, killing, hurting, maiming, and it was his job to stop it.

 

There had been a time when that was his second priority; his first priority, being his sons. But they could take care of themselves, couldn’t they? He could leave now, be on the road in an hour, taking up the hunt in search of his wife’s killer. Sam could handle this.

 

But one look at his youngest and he knew otherwise. He didn’t doubt the boy’s ability to react well in the worst of situations, but he was hurting, and that much was clear. Seeing Dean injured hadn’t been a picnic for either of them, but Sam had held his brother, limp in his arms, covered in blood he had since scrubbed away in the small toilets of this floor. He had fallen asleep with skin rubbed red, and eyes itching no doubt from scrubbing them too.

 

Had Dean’s injuries been nothing more than a broken bone, or bruising, then John would have already sent Sam in one direction, and taking another himself on the lookout for abandoned carts ripe for the picking. A quick swipe at the necessary rolls of gauze, medical tape, and if they were lucky, some anaesthetic and they were on their way, trusting Dean to discharge himself, and meet them in the car.

 

But this wasn’t a broken bone, though it could be for all John and Sam knew, and it was much worse than bruising. There was blood everywhere, more out than in, he supposed, and that was never right.

 

“And they haven’t said anything?”

“No, Sam, they haven’t.”

 

And that was that.

 

*-*-*

 

Sam didn’t fall asleep again, and John never let the thought cross his mind. Another hour passed before finally a nurse took pity on them, and went to find out if there was any more news to be heard for The Martin family.

 

It made sense. Sam was fairly sure there was an ID with his face on it ending with that surname, and seeing as his father, the only one of them carrying ID, had used that one, there was no point going against it. The questions had been surprisingly mild, almost shocking Sam how easily they swallowed his father every word.

 

_My son....hadn’t been home in hours....found him like this....please help him._

 

There would be more when Dean woke up, to which he would keep to the same story he had perfected over the years. Too dark to see his attacker, nothing more than an innocent bystander, and using the same brush off with the police, letting John take over with his anger at the lack of order in the town, making the officers fumble as they left with their promises of finding the attacker.

 

But that was to happen when Dean woke up, and so far, he was still dead to the world, in a different room, down another corridor, with his own problems to deal with.

 

Like surviving.

 

*-*-*

 

Hours later both caught a glimpse of scrubs heading for them in the corner of their eyes. They looked and saw the doctor walking over to them, her face impassive until she was that close to John and she smiled. “I think he’s out of the woods for now, but he’s gonna have to take it easy for a while. Rest up, not do anything strenuous.” John swallowed, and she put a hand on his arm.

 

“You can go see him, if you’d like.” And she looked back to the double doors, the same ones John had been staring at for hours on end, wishing more than anything to go in there, and now...

 

Now, it occurred to him what he might see behind those doors. His son lying there, so vulnerable because of his father’s failings. John couldn’t face it, he knew-no, he didn’t know anything; he just couldn’t be there, then. Sam could handle it, Sam  _can_  handle it. Sam will handle it.

 

Sam didn’t say anything, Sam didn’t notice. But when the doctor finally came and got them with a you can see him now, John had shot up but Dean had gone in the opposite direction, toward the exit. “Dad?” He called, surprised. “Dad!”

 

Sam ran after him as he left the hospital, legs taking him to the truck.

 

“Dad! We can’t do this to him!” Sam called desperately, and John whirled around, pointing to the building.

 

“Sam, stay here!”

 

“The hell I will, stay with me!” But John didn’t answer, only threw open the door with a creak, started the engine and drove away. Sam swore, now left there with no car.

 

“God damn it!” Sam hissed before running back into the reception and asking for the direction of the nearest phone. He’d catch up to his father even if it meant hiring a taxi to do so.

 

*-*-*

 

The last thing he remembered, really, was staring at a wall, wishing he could see how far the crack that began about halfway down really went. How deep into the floor it carried on, if there was moisture attached, or if it was his own vision glistening that made it look as such. The last thing he remembered was hurting. Pain, and worry, panic, that this was it, when darkness reached him that was the end.

 

But when Dean woke up, it was to white. White walls, floors, sheets, and noise. His ears were ringing strangely as sound dipped and he searched the room. He had been left alone for time being, but where the hell were his brother and father?

 

He knew, without ever having to be told that it was them that had brought him here, to the hospital of all places, had things really been that bad?

 

But then he looked down and saw a glimpse of his wrist, and knew that even with the light bandaging, he must look quite a sight. God, there would be so many questions, what idiot had suggested taking him to the hospital? But the answer was obvious, Sam worried too much.

 

Dean was cold, and the blankets were itchy, but warm, and he pulled them up carefully, his stomach groaning. For a moment he was lost for thought, robbed for logic and memories, and then it hit him square in the chest.  _Kate_  had done this. And in had come Dad and Sammy to save him? They must have, he knew, but now, where were they? They hadn’t left had they? Dean pushed himself up weakly, head aching somewhat but antibiotics having already defeated his fever while he slept. Dean fell back down onto the pillows instantly when a doctor walked in and frowned.

 

“Yours injuries were extensive, but you’re lucky the knife wound won’t leave any lasting damage we weren’t able to repair.”

 

Dean nodded, and vaguely listened to her casually recounting his injuries for him to inwardly cringe at. She spoke of how worried they had been at the high temperature of his fever, but he gave her a look that said,  _nothing new_.

 

“Is my brother here?” He croaked, throat dry, and still so tired, so weak.

 

She nodded,  _“_ he and your father had to go, I’m sure they’ll be back later on.”

 

Dean swallowed. _Yeah, I’m sure._  


 

When next he saw her, she wanted to ask questions, and once again he feigned ignorance, an attack in the dark, unable to see, and she mentioned police lightly, though it was clear he was spooked, and she took back the question, replying that she would only do so when he was ready. He actually felt bad when she smiled as she left, knowing he wouldn’t be for long.

 

*-*-*

 

The taxi driver was concerned, but Sam had no time to care. After they had looked around for the truck with no luck, he had simply said to drop him off at the cabin, As soon as daylight passed, Sam saw the truck pull in, and he braced himself for what would have to be a showdown. He couldn’t let their father leave, not again, not after they had promised they would go after this thing together.

 

“Damn it Sam, your brother needs you, what the hell are you doing here?” A great and spectacular greeting from his father.

 

“Making sure you don’t leave again. Dean needs the both of us, we need to get back, now.”

 

But John was shaking his head, “No, now go, Sam!”

 

A sudden knock, followed by tires in the dust, left Sam and John staring at one another, before Sam unlocked the door, opening it cautiously. The door creaked open, revealing the figure hunched leaning against the doorframe, and Sam was reminded too much of Dean’s heart condition and brush with death, than he’d ever like to admit.

 

*-*-*

 

Dean was no stranger to sneaking out of hospital’s prematurely, or convincing even the strictest of medical practitioners to let him go, flashing some kind of ID that gave the doctor confidence he could take care of his own wounds. And it always concerned him how easily he could escape, he realised that security might not be the main priority but still, it was getting tedious at how easy it was. He missed the challenge...

 

Clothes had been left out for him, ones he remembered leaving in his father’s truck some time ago, and surprised that they still existed. He crept out of bed, wincing at the pull on his stomach, but still glad there was enough morphine in his system to help with the worst of it, and knowing there was a good amount in the Winchester-first-second-and-third-aid-kit in the Impala. He pulled on his jeans, and slipped on his boots. He carefully took off the gown, and saw the gauze wrapped around his torso.

 

Maybe things had been worse than he’d thought, maybe he should stay...

 

He grabbed the shirt, glad that it was a loose one, pulled it on quickly and ran a hand through his hair, trying to make it look less and less like he’d just woken up a few hours or so ago. He smiled at the sight of his jacket, something that grew when he put it on happily; glad that it would cover any injuries his clothes did not. Maybe it was silly to have so much pride in an article of clothing, but it was certainly help to hide the worst of the bruising on his neck should he raise the collar like he normally did.

 

Exiting had again been fairly easy, there had been one respect where a nurse had turned the corner and he had been forced to duck into a supply closet, but then after a quick wait to catch his breath, he was off once more, walking as quickly as he could without showcasing a limp or slowness attributed to injuries. The air hit him hard, cold and unforgiving but he couldn’t waste any time standing in reception trying to get used to the occasional draft. He’d already seen the pay phone and was quickly straying over to it, glad to see the necessities pinned up on the side.

 

He didn’t have any change, though he knew he carried enough bills to take care of the fee. He’d taken advantage of the elderly lady and her purse full of change, taking pity on such a young man, though at first she had more than frowned at his appearance. All bruised and broken.

 

He hadn’t missed the cabby’s gaze, and he grunted at the barb shot in his direction, asking how the other guy fared. Normally he might have replied, but now he felt mildly pissed. When he leaned forward to get out, little black spots danced in front of his vision and before he knew it, the cab driver was in front of him by the door, offering a hand, which Dean took gratefully. He braced himself on the car, digging into his jeans for the money, but the driver took one look at the battered form and took more pity on him than he would ever likely take on any one again.

 

“You sure you’re gonna be okay here, buddy?” He asked instead of taking the money, gesturing to the cabin. Dean barely smiled, muttering, “No,” And making his way to the door. He dared lean against it, waiting for the answer to his knock and when he saw his brother, alive, well, and somewhat surprised, he pushed past him, edging into the room.

 

“Not gonna do a disappearing act on me are you?”

 

The words alone, would not have spurred a Winchester into action. Indeed, had Dean himself heard them directed to himself, he might have smirked in the direction of the speaker, or sighed, depending on the underlining content Sam was aiming for-and Dean knew if anyone was saying it, it would be Sam-.

 

“The doctor said nothing strenuous.” John reprimanded, straying closer, Dean rolled his eyes.

 

“It’s not like I walked over here.”

 

But his arm was still draped protectively over his abdomen, and John could still see the boy’s wrists that were no doubt paining him too.

 

“You shouldn’t have left the hospital Dean.”

 

“Yeah? Be nice if you could think the same thing, Dad.”

 

John sighed, running a hand through his hair. That? He deserved. For a fleeting second Dean’s mind swayed, and his body did too, out of the hospital far too early, he needed rest. When he began to fall, John raced towards his son, grabbing him, and unable to stop himself from holding on tightly to his boy. A much needed hug passing between the both of them, Sam joining in as he helped his father manoeuvre his brother onto the bed.

 

“Hey Sam? I’m sorry about that, son; I shouldn’t have left the hospital.”

 

“It’s not me you should be apologizing to.”

 

John looked startled for a moment before nodding in agreement, but Dean was already out, asleep, and John grabbed the covers, putting them over his boy and keeping him warm. He would tell him in the morning.

 

*-*-*

 

But when morning came; Dean was up far too early, staring at every single note pinned to the wall, examining every diagram and rough scripture, tracing his index finger over the lines of every map and following them with an intent gaze. John himself was up early too, checking, and double checking his information, cross referencing against second opinions to make sure he was right.

 

He wished he wasn’t, but he could see it, the pattern emerging once more. He’d seen the article on the freak electrical storms hitting that part of Iowa and after digging a little deeper he found letters sent in to the local paper speaking of the farmers’ outrage at the lack of coverage on the deaths of their cattle. He sighed aloud when he found the information on the temperature fluctuations, and knew. He knew. And from then on John had felt the need to explain everything he could to his children, telling himself the apology would just have to be put on hold for now. That he’d get around to it soon enough.

 

They had a demon to deal with, the bonding could wait.

 

 

**Epilogue to follow**


	7. Chapter 7

**_These walls I make they hold me in and hold me back today but tomorrow's new, then I walk right out and walk right over you_ **

 

John was watching Dean with more than a little concern. He looked so pale to the hunter’s trained eyes, so weary, and yet so determined to prove his worth. He had always been like that, the father knew. Every time Dean had been injured or ill he would go into over-drive to prove he didn’t need to be looked after, to prove he could handle himself was well as ever, that he wasn’t as weak as he felt at that moment.

 

But his shoulders were drooping, and fatigue always won in the end.

 

John had explained all he knew about the demon, telling his boys of every little pattern he had noticed after grueling sessions checking and re-checking information, afraid he had been wrong. Hoping h had been wrong. Especially when he had sifted through articles and news reports of that day...of Mary’s...

 

And he had seen the confirmation on a lit up computer screen in a dark library just before closing. Just before he was ushered away he had seen it, electrical storms, cattle deaths, all of it, and then nothing after November began. They stopped come the third and John knew all he needed to know, and yet, was left yearning for more.

 

If there was a pattern, a concise term of events then logic told him he could practically predict the next attack. If he was careful, and so very precise, he could find the demon. He could kill him. But ever since he had found the pattern it had only mounted his guilt as he watched too many houses go up in flames, saw too many husbands clutching their newborns as they stood on the lawn, screaming, and sirens sounding in the distance.

 

He’d watched, running out of his truck, running, but never getting there in time. Sometimes driving up when the fire trucks were already blocking the road, and the remaining broken family already taken to the hospital to be checked out. He knew how much that hurt. He could remember that night more clearly than most days of late. Sitting on the Impala in the cold night air, watching with detached care as the men rushed in and out of the burning family home, clutching the bleary eyed baby in his arms, feeling Dean’s head resting on his arm as he stayed close to his father, still shaking a little.

 

He remembered the paramedics who had cajoled him into the back of the ambulance with his children, and he remembered that when they finally stopped, when they climbed out, his children were gone. He had fought, shouted, but the nurse who had seemed to appear out of nowhere, whom he later apologized to and thanked for taking his screaming with a pinch of salt, had told him so calmly that he had to let the Doctors check them out to be sure, and that he’d see them soon.

 

She hadn’t lied. His boys were fine, no smoke inhalation, nothing, but Dean had yet to say a word.

 

_“What do you mean post-traumatic-stress-disorder?”_

 

_“It’s mild, Mr. Winchester, and considering what Dean saw, it’s not surprising.”_

 

_“But he’s okay, right? He’s not hurt...?”_

 

  
_“No, he’s perfectly healthy, but he really needs his father right now.”_  And the doctor had given him that look; the look of a concerned bystander, the look that Mike and his wife would give him in a week or so after staying with them, and spouting his ideas on the occult. The looks social workers who came across the Winchesters in hospital would shoot him, as he dodged yet another bullet, and kept his boys for just that little bit longer.

 

The look told him, the doctor had seen him at his worst, seen his screaming from earlier, and had seen from previous cases what grief could do to someone, now suddenly made to be a single parent. But the look softened, as he led him to the little playroom where Dean sat on a chair, absently scuffing his shoe against the carpet, rocking his feet back and forth a fraction above the ground as a young lady asked him if he wanted to play with the blocks, and after a moment of staring at her as though she were silly, he looked back to his feet.

 

As soon as John actually stepped into the room, Dean’s head shot up and he ran forward, barreling into his father as though he were afraid he might never see the big man again. John had looked at the boy hooked onto his knees, before quickly scooping him into his arms and telling him it would be okay, and planting little kisses on the boy’s skin, smoothing down the long hair – Mary said it looked cute to grow it that long, and John would joke that Mary had always wanted a girl.

 

He turned back to the doctor, Dean safely in his arms, head resting in the crook between John’s shoulder and neck, little fists clutching his father’s night shirt.  _“Sammy?”_  He asked simply, and the doctor nodded, leading the father once again to where the youngest child was sleeping.

 

John wished they were that young now. He wished he could still hold Dean, and have him fall asleep in his arms. He wished he could watch Sam sleep, and indeed he had only seen him do it once now, after four years of nothing...

 

Sam hadn’t slept last night, and John wasn’t stupid. He too had stayed awake, sitting on the same chair as the few nights before, watching with a trained eye, and leaving on the timidly-bright-lamp to help him see better. He could hear Sam’s breathing, and knew the boy was wide awake, listening out for any distress from his brother.

 

But there had been none, Dean’s nightmares weren’t gone, he tossed and turned, but for the most part calmed himself down, before any audible sounds could be made known.  

 

John wondered if he had had to do that in the hospital after waking up alone and he berated himself once more for leaving his son there, to wake up alone and have no comfort from either family member. It wasn’t his fault, Sam had left.

 

But it was his fault that he himself was a coward, unable to face up to what he had caused. Unable to see Dean for fear that the blood would still linger on skin so hard and tough, old and sunken around the eyes were sleep had been starved from him...

 

Only once, last night, had Dean woken himself up from a cry. A simple, hissed “No!” Through cracked lips, that split at the sudden motion, pain only increasing as he jolted his wounds, and fell back to the covers instantly, being surrounded by his brother and father as soon as his head hit the pillows. But his eyes had closed too, and Sam had trudged back to his bed, while John stared, his hand still outstretched, wary to touch the boy lying so still, before he too, walked back to the chair, and settled in.

 

Now, Dean was grasping the table for support, and the motion hadn’t gone un-noticed by anyone, but John knew better than to make an outward comment too soon. If he damaged Dean’s pride then the boy would only feel the need to prove his worth increase ten-fold, and instead John saw Dean take a breath, as though trying to swallow his mantra, and tell himself that pain was good, pain made him alive, and he turned back to the conversation.

 

“All right, so what’s this trail you found?” Dean asked John, jaw still set against the aching of his body.

 

“It’s starts in Arizona, then New Jersey, California, houses burned down to the ground...it’s going after families, just like it went after us.”

 

“Families with infants?” Sam asked, carefully from his spot by the window.

 

“Yeah, the night of the kid’s six-month birthday.”

 

“I was six-months old that night?”

 

“Exactly six months.”

 

“So basically this demon is going after these kids for some reason, same way it came for me? So Mom’s death, Jessica it’s all ‘cause of me?”

 

“We don’t know that, Sam.” Dean said, a hand still lingering close to the table for support.

 

“Oh really? ‘Cause I’d say we’re pretty damn sure, Dean!” Sam shouted, frustrated and angry.

 

“For the last time, what happened to them is not your _fault_!”

 

“Yeah you’re right, it’s not my fault, but it’s my problem!”

 

“No, it’s not your problem, it’s our problem!” And as soon as he finished yelling that last word his vision swam and he leaned back into the table, effectively sitting on it, as he took deep breaths, and unconsciously let a hand rest on his injured abdomen.

 

“Dean?” John came running to his son’s side, and Sam swallowed any words he had intended on replying with when he saw his brother’s pallor go ghostly.

 

“I’m fine.” He bit out, but his eyes were still closed, trying to focus beneath the eyelids, and he had made no move to stand up again.

 

“Come on, you need rest.” John said carefully, already trying to maneuver Dean’s arm around his shoulders, to lead him to the bed, but Dean was pulling away from the grasp, muttering that no, he was fine, but then Sam was on his other side, blocking him from retreating and he too, began leading his brother to the bed.

 

“We can’t waste any more time.” Dean said, dejectedly, as he was sat down slowly, talking to take his mind off of the hurting.

 

“And we won’t.” Sam said simply, looking him in the eyes, begging Dean to see that his well-being came before the demon, no matter how obsessed they became.

 

“Don’t worry,” John said, “We’ll wake you up before we leave.”

 

“I’m not tired, Dad.” Dean whined, but laid his head against the pillow all the same.

 

*-*-*

 

He had never intended to fall asleep himself, especially as it was mid-morning now, but Sam had, and staying up and watching both of his son’s had made him more tired than he had originally thought, not to mention how calming his son’s steady breathing was, to ears so used to the painful gasp every now and again. As soon as his eyes dropped and closed, he was haunted by his memories, same as always. He hadn’t dreamt of the fire and flames for nearly a year, and it surprised him considering how often he let his mind wander to those dark times.

 

...that only got darker...

 

No, not even Mary came to him in this nightmare. But Dean was there. Bound like an animal, strung up, and beaten, and John was forced to watch it all, though most of it was his own imagination working into over-drive trying to work out how the wounds became so extensive; especially when Dean wouldn’t tell them anything.

 

They hadn’t asked, but they wanted to give him space, it was vital to ensure that he would ever talk to them; he needed to talk when he was ready, and divulge precious information only when he felt the time was right. Never before, only after.

 

They were hitting him and kicking him, and the sickening sound effects of a rib cracking and breaking, or the pain filled groans of his oldest, made his stomach churn. He wanted to save him, rescue him, but he couldn’t move, not toward Dean, only backwards. Only further away. He was pushing himself further away and Dean was on the floor now, eyes wide open and glassy, staring at his father, a light dimming somewhere, a lamp flickering so dangerously that soon, the light would be lost.

 

“Dad,” Dean whispered, and John felt his heart beat more and more, faster and faster. Dean was trying to get up, there was hope in his face as though he were saved, rescued, but John couldn’t get to him, and the Vampires had yet to leave. They were taunting him but he still took steady steps to where John waited for him.

 

And when he moved back, John thought he might die at the hurt look that flash across his boy’s face. He held out his hands, begging for touch, and John did the same, unable to reach him, just too far away, pushing himself further away. Pushing  _him_  further...

 

The Vampire sneered, and the glint of a knife in the waning moonlight from nowhere made John’s entire being freeze, daring him to keep watching, to keep his eyes open for this, his boy’s last moments.

 

“No!” He cried as the knife dug deep, and Dean only moved his head to stare up at his father. But he was closer now. Had he finally been able to break the spell and run toward his son that fast? There was something on his hands, and when he looked down, he saw the blood quickly covering his skin, spouting out from somewhere, from the knife edge. The hilt in his hand, dying red.

 

_Oh god, no._

 

“Dad?”

 

John let go, and Dean fell to the floor with a horrible thud, the blood now seeping all around him into the ground, as his son’s skin got paler and paler

 

“Dean!” A voice called from afar in the distance, and John couldn’t bare to look at the dying any longer.

 

_“No!”_

 

He shot awake, his body jerking in the chair, and he knew where the voice, the far away voice, had come from.

 

“Dean!” Sam cried trying to calm his brother down, as his body bucked completely up off of the bed, and thrashed wildly, caught in the throngs of a powerful nightmare that Sam dread to think of the content. His head was tossing back and forth, dangerously close to the wall behind, and Sam was trying to keep his brother still, still enough to calm down, maybe just wake up, anything but this.

 

“Sam?”

 

Sam’s head shot around, hands never straying from Dean, as he looked at his father with a gaze that told him to  _help!_  


 

John shot into action, in much of the same way he had woken up; startled, and afraid. He reached his son’s bedside, and firmly put his weight into holding him down as he tried to move again. A fist almost struck him, before the hand was held down beneath the burly arms, and it was then John realized it might not be the best thing for his son.

 

Dean was not calming down, but he was quieter, he was whimpering, whispering, “No, no.” And the bucking stopped, but the slow tossing did not. Methodically, one side to the other as though looking for a familiar face that wasn’t there. God they hadn’t even found him until after he had fallen unconscious and when Dean should have woken up in safety, to his father and brother berating him for his stupidity to hide their emotions...

 

But Dean had woken up alone. Dean had gotten dressed, escaped the hospital, gotten a taxi and arrived at the front door. Even he had made a comment on the Winchester vanishing act, but he hadn’t, and neither had Sam, though, it was hardly the youngest’ fault. John had left,  _again_ , and he wondered how Dean could stand it. But then, looking back at the crumbling resolve of his son’s subconscious, he knew, Dean couldn’t. Not really.

 

“Dean, it’s okay, you’re safe now.” Sam whispered to his brother ear, but John still heard and wondered when Sam had become the father, because John knew those were the words he should have spoken to his son, and he felt a tiny pang of jealousy at how much Dean calmed at the words, and Sam’s hand brushing across Dean’s hair, slightly wet from perspiration. Sam took his own deep breath, and dared let go of his brother, and saw to his relief, that he didn’t jerk, and was now sleeping once more. Sam looked at his father, waiting for John to relinquish his hold, but he was more than reluctant. He was still staring at Dean, swallowing words of comfort, aware that Sam had done it instead.

 

“Dad?” Sam whispered, and John jerked, the last time he had heard the word, Dean was calling out to him in his dream. Dean had whispered then too, and John hadn’t moved then either. “Dad, it’s okay, come on.” And Sam was prying his fathers’ fingers from his brother’s wrist, and leading him away from the bed, noticing the slightly shell-shocked expression.

 

“Are you okay?” He asked, quietly, though now a sufficient distance to rouse Dean.

 

“Bad dream.” John said simply, and saw Sam grin. “You’re not the only one.”

 

John looked at Sam in bewilderment and wondered how he could mock his brother, but then realized Sam wasn’t referring to Dean.

 

“Yeah?”

 

An invitation to talk, but Sam looked down, and confirmed it with his own muttered, “Yeah.”

 

John ran a hand through his mussed hair, looking over at Dean sleeping. “He-god-it was bad.” He bit out finally, and knew Sam felt the same. “Has that...has he ever had nightmares like that before?”

 

“No, he has nightmares though, but he always wakes himself up, and goes back to sleep. He thinks I don’t notice, and there’s no point in bringing it up, he’ll only deny it.”

 

John nodded in agreement, switching his gaze back to his youngest. “You knew exactly what to do.” John said, looking at his boy in slight awe. Granted, he knew what to do, because being their father, by default meant a few nightmares every now and again, but never as severe as this he was sure. In the morning they would have to check that Dean hadn’t ripped out any stitches in his frenzy.

 

“He’s had to do it with me.” John said nothing, waiting for more, and Sam continued. “Sometimes, my dreams can get out of hand and Dean’s just there.”

 

“You’ve been helping each other, then?”

 

“Yeah, yeah we have.”

 

“I’m glad.”

 

Sam didn’t speak for a moment, letting his eyes find Dean’s prone form once more.

 

“Me too.”

 

And they let the rest of the day pass lazily, letting Dean sleep until the next morning.

 

*-*-*

 

When John came back into the room, having gotten breakfast for them all, Dean was standing, much to Sam’s obvious annoyance, and looking over the notes pinned to the wall, re-reading every little passage of messy scripture by his father, thoughts and ideas, and wild theory’s some more than others. Sam was hovering close, should Dean fall, but he looked stronger today, color beginning to return to his cheeks, and his stance more precise. More  _Dean_.

 

Sam greeted their father in the doorway, helping to pile out the food on to a portion of the table not covered in papers. Dean stretched a hand out to once again trace the lines of a map when he noticed the slight bruising on his wrist that wasn’t there before. Spots, as though fingers had held on tightly. 

“What the-?” He cursed confused, and John, following his gaze winced.

 

“You had a dream last night.” Sam said simply, looking Dean straight in the eye, daring him to deny it.

 

“And you decided to grab my wrists, because...”

 

John recognized the tone, intricate humor laced into the volumes, mocking the situation, the diversion tactic was clear.

 

“Because if we hadn’t, your stitches would have ripped.”

 

Dean heard the we, and gulped, flicking his gaze over his father for a moment.

 

“Huh.” Dean muttered, turning back the map, flexing his wrist a little, the pain more obvious now that he had indeed noticed the bruising.

 

“You wanna talk about it?” Sam asked carefully, after a while, and Dean raised his eyebrow.

 

“I’m good, thanks.”

 

“Dean-.”

 

“What? I already told you I don’t remember it.”

 

“Then don’t talk about the dream.”

“What the hell, Sam?”

 

“You can’t just ignore what happened; you’ll have to deal with it when you’re asleep!”

 

“There’s nothing to talk about!”

 

“The hell there isn’t, Dean, they beat the crap out of you, you were bleeding everywhere, damn it, you could have died!”

 

“So why the hell would I want to re-live that Sam?”

 

“Boys!” John cut across, seeing both tempers flaring dangerously. Dean took a deep breath but refused to look at his father.

 

“Sam, I’m sure Dean will trust us enough soon, to talk when he’s ready.”

 

And Sam knew of the guilt-trip maneuver John was now playing, but Dean seemed unfazed, too much experience on the receiving end.

 

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Dean-.” John began, hoping to get through to him, but Dean only softened.

 

“I had a bad dream, that’s all, Dad, I’m fine, okay? You  _found_  me, and I’m okay.”

 

Sam wondered at Dean’s careful word-choice.  _Saved_  would imply he needed saving, something Dean would never admit;  _rescued_  did the same, but  _found_? Well Dean did need finding, and Sam was glad his brother wasn’t trying to deny that, but his brother was right. They had found him, and he was there with them, healing, albeit reluctantly, and he was back to his old defense mechanism ways, and looking at the next hunt.  _The_  hunt. The one they had been hunting for twenty-years, and Dean would be damned if he was left out of it. Always trying to prove something, always yearning for pride...

 

But he was _found_ , and that was all that mattered.

 

** The End.  
**

****


End file.
